A tribute to a wonderful, big old boy

My gray and white tom, Joey, is one of the gentlest creatures on God's green earth. While he likes everyone he has ever met (except for the vet who tried to microchip him), he especially likes noisy little boys and other cats. He enjoys sleeping in the sun or, in the wintertime, on my flannel sheets. When he's asleep, he looks like he's smiling, and his sweet expression never fails to touch my heart.

He came to me via a local animal shelter, where he was dumped (left in a cardboard box, taped shut with little breathing holes poked in the top) Christmastime 1999. According to the note that accompanied him, his humans could no longer afford to feed him. Because of his natural and lasting affinity for kids -- no matter how loud, no matter how active -- I am sure he grew up among children.

As near as we can tell, Joey was born in 1997. As he approaches his 10th birthday, he is starting to show his age. He sleeps more, and more soundly. Even though he is enormous ("massive" is how his vet likes to describe him), he eats less. While more social with me -- he's taken to doing figure 8's between my legs as I put my coat on, trying to persuade me not to leave -- he plays less with the incorrigible baby of the family, Reynaldo.

I don't think anything is wrong with him, though as soon as this cold snap is over we are going to the vet. I just think it's the passage of time. It's inevitable, and it makes me sad.